


Turning

by claudia6913



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Character Death, Dark, Explicit Language, F/M, Magic, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia6913/pseuds/claudia6913
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willow is trying to deal with her recent trek to the dark side of magic and failing miserably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** AtS/BtVS is owned by Joss, ME, and all them over there.

**Chapter 1**

A mistake, the hand of fate, a fork in the road - whatever it is called, it is happening to her, destroying her life as she knows it until it is nothing more than a mockery of what she has always expected it to be. 

Her friends whisper things behind her back, thinking she won't hear them, hoping she won't notice the stares and the way their eyes follow her every move. They expect her to do something irrational again - like run off with Dawn and try to kill her. And after all, it’s true; she has done it once by accident, and that night will haunt her the rest of her life. She feels now that she deserves the treatment to an extent. In all her remorse over the entire situation, Willow feels that every bit of this is deserved.

She has given up so much for these friends of hers; most importantly, her magic. They think because she is no longer practicing, and if she doesn’t revert to what she was before, that she’ll be all right. What they fail to realize, however is how much that magic is a part of her, how much it is needed. It is as if they had removed her heart and expected her body to go on pumping blood through her veins in its absence. 

She smiles on occasion, playing her part in the show until she is offstage and can let the curtains fall and the tears wash through her. But she’s never really offstage and the pain and loss that are eating her up inside are masked over until Willow herself can no longer recognize the face in the mirror as her own. 

In little ways her love for her friends turns bitter. Their distrust is mirrored in Willow after time. Without realizing it, she begins to hate them for their mollycoddling, for the way they treat her as if she is a child and should be punished as such.

Everyone has taken a piece of Willow, though she knows from their eyes that they do not realize this. Buffy has the biggest piece. Willow had given up a part of herself, sacrificed much to bring the Slayer back from what they’d believed to be a hell dimension. They all knew better now, Willow included, but that is not the point. The point is there was no acknowledgement of the feat; no expression of gratitude or even understanding for doing what she’d truly believed was a good deed. Instead of helping Willow, they shun her; blame her for that as well.

Even Xander, as human and fallible as he is, does not regard her in the same manner any longer. It is his ever-present look of concern and near-fear that cuts her like a knife, tearing into the meat of herself. When she tries to talk to him, it is as if he doesn’t hear her, and he always quickly makes excuses to leave the room or draw someone else into the room so they are no longer alone. She can tell he no longer trusts her. 

The youngest Summers' girl, Dawn, will not even look at Willow - no matter how many times she apologizes. However, Dawn's anger doesn't hurt Willow as much because it is most deserved in her eyes. Dawn trusted her and she betrayed that trust more than anyone else's because Dawn, despite being a mystical key only recently made human, is also a young girl, a girl she was supposed to take care of. Willow is older and therefore should have had the ability to tell right from wrong.

Giles, the mentor of the group ... Willow can only feel betrayed by him. Just as Dawn should have been able to trust Willow - Willow should have been able to trust Giles. He, more than anyone, should have known her power, should have known that eventually she would need to learn to control it. Nevertheless, he didn't, and now she is an outcast, hated ... alone.

No matter who is to blame, no matter what is said or what is done, Willow is through with being where she is not wanted. When she says she is in pain, they do not believe her. They do not know that the magic, the thing they are trying to keep her from, is killing her slowly, eating away at her from the inside out. 

A sigh of grief escapes Willow as she rests her head against the wall in the bathroom. This is the only place where they will not actively seek her out. It has become her sanctuary from all that is living so that she may have some peace with the dead - with Tara. It is ironic how she feels the only one that would understand her in her time of need is the only one who can no longer help her. Closing her eyes, she can see her lover’s face, soft, understanding, with a hint of a smile curving the lips at the corners. She is beautiful in Willow's mind’s eye, but even as she looks upon this vision, it becomes distorted by sounds from outside the door. 

They are talking about her again, she realizes. In hushed voices and urgent whispers, they speak of her as if she isn't in that bathroom next to them, hurting. They no longer want the responsibility of looking after her; feel it is not their duty. 

That is fine with Willow. She refuses to stay where she is unwanted.

Closing her eyes again, she pictures Tara, and waits for them to leave so that she can leave them.

It is odd to her, how easy it is to slip out. Right through the front door she walks, a small bag slung over her shoulder and a tear in her eye. They are in the kitchen, eating and laughing as she leaves. 

Through broad daylight she walks, ignoring the glances at her, afraid they can see in her the same thing her friends see and shun her for. Willow keeps her head down as she walks through the familiar streets of Sunnydale, until she arrives at the bus station. With shaking hands, she gives the man what little money she has and asks to be taken wherever that will get her. She does not hear the name of the city as he says it, only takes the ticket, and follows the line of his finger as he points to where the train is boarding at that moment.

White knuckles wrap around the ticket as she walks quickly into the line forming by the train, and waits. Her eyes dart around her, afraid that someone will see her, though she knows that is impossible. If she knows anything about her supposed friends, she knows that they will not notice her absence until she is long gone. They will think today is another day where she will hole herself up in her room and not come out. Only once will they knock on her door, and when she does not answer, they will think nothing of it and say as they leave that she is weak today.

Angrily, Willow wipes at the tear that streaks unbidden down her face. She may be weak, but she is strong enough to leave them. To know when to go.

The man takes her ticket with a sympathetic smile and she boards the train, sitting as far away from anyone as possible.

The train rocks into motion slowly before it gains speed. It isn't until Willow can no longer see the city that she lets out the breath she is holding, and lets the dam break from behind her eyes.

What city she’s in is no longer important to her once she finds a computer to gain her access to her trust fund. As she sees it, it is the least her parents can do - fund her escape.

A bed is a bed to her in her wanderings; anywhere that doesn't ask too many questions is always perfect for her. The roaches only bothered her that first time, but now they are just as welcome as the spiders and the empty bottles of alcohol she has begun to collect.

Days bleed to night and then to a new day. Willow can no longer remember when she left, and at times has trouble remembering what she is running from, but that does not stop her from wandering out into the night. Sunnydale seems a dream to her now, a nightmare from which she has awoken only to find out that it is real. Vampires do exist. She had a lover who died. She had been cast out and shunned.

Every time she draws in a breath her chest hurts with it. 

During one of her many walks, Willow chances to look at her surroundings, looking up instead of down, and sees a sign proclaiming the city to be Los Angeles. The City of Angels. All too funny, she thinks, as laughter bubbles out of her in bursts. It is ironic to her, a fallen witch, that she would end up in a city named for beings so close to a God she no longer worships.

Alcohol runs heavy through her veins, making the lights flicker especially bright in the night. They even seem to replace the stars they block. 

Walking through the city, Willow finds herself in a building still under construction and ignoring all signs that tell her to turn back, she continues on. The lights call to her in dancing colors. The steel beneath her feet is raw and un-worked still, leaving her swaying in the wind. 

Unable to stay standing, she lowers herself to the beam, leaning against the pole next to her as she looks out to the skyline.

Something wet on her arm draws Willow's attention away from the night-lights and she looks down upon her pale arm, now stained a dark red with blood. Somewhere along the way, she scraped herself, unknowing, unfeeling ... until now.

However, panic does not set in, as she would have expected it to. Rather, the only thing to cross her mind is something someone would have said. She giggles, thinking of Spike, hearing him say what a waste of perfectly good blood this is.

Willow has no idea the severity of the cut - does not realize how deadly it is. Instead of stemming the flow of the blood, she lets her arm drop back to her side, the blood trailing along her arm to drip down to the streets below.

Before long, the lights dim and Willow only now thinks about her mortality. She tries to raise her head, but it feels so heavy, lying there against the steel. Her arms are like lead weights and she is unable to move them. 

Trying hard to keep her eyes open, everything looks so surreal, dim yet bright at the same time. For a brief moment, she thinks she is in heaven, with Tara there. Straining, she reaches for the ghost of her lover as a tear slips down her face. Willow knows heaven is not her destination. Not with the life she has led, not with the way she has betrayed everyone ... not with the death she has brought - no matter how just it was.

Fear grips at her heart now - just as she feels life slipping through her fingers. A hell awaits her, which she knows even though she does not believe in it. Fires nip at her dangling feet, scorching her from the inside.

With a last effort, Willow opens her eyes to take a final look at a world that is dark and lonely, but that is still better than the one she knows awaits her. Above her is a figure that blends in with the night sky so well that she almost doesn’t see it. Their face is blurred but she can see the brows knitted in disappointment, or what she assumes is such. Briefly, she thinks of Tara and of how disappointed she must be in Willow.

Focusing her eyes on this person, she tries to ask for help. The person, however, looks familiar to her. They move into the light and it shines around their face for a moment, framing them like the halo of one of the angels this city is named for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Nothing in particular has called this dark avenger out of his cave to roam the streets this night - but here he is. His eyes, fine-tuned to see what lies in the shadows, carefully scanning the dregs of human life to find what is lying beneath it all. Demons in the darkness pull away as he walks by. Though he knows he should do something about them, another scent has caught him and he follows it. Blood. 

A small red drop falls upon his face as he walks, causing Angel to stop. He wipes the blood from his cheek and carefully examines it. The scent is spicy and sad - pained. Looking up, he sees a figure lying there. This, he thinks, is what has drawn him out this night, as he makes his way through the abandoned building.

Silhouetted against the lights is a frail figure, death is nipping at her heels as he carefully picks his way along the beam to her. Red hair floats in the breeze, and Angel's step falters. A name comes to mind, an impossibility he thinks, but as he comes closer, he realizes that it really is her.

It is Willow.

A flurry of questions make their way through his mind, but finding the answers to them is nowhere near important as getting her to safety. Carefully, he gathers her into his arms and takes her off the high ledge. She moves, opens her parched lips and Angel stops just inside the broken building. She whispers a name, one he does not know, then turns to him. Her green eyes blaze with fear as she speaks his name. And as that name leaves her lips, she goes limp in his arms.

Angel knows what will happen next; her heart rate will slow, her body will turn cold, and she will be gone forever. Sinking to his knees, Angel knows that no matter the speed of movement his demon allows him to achieve, he will not be able to save her. It is unjust in his mind, that such a pure creature, a girl who had restored his soul, had given him such hope when he had known nothing of the sort, should die now in his arms because he has not been there for her.

With a last bit of hope, he looks around him, hoping that, by some miracle, her friends from Sunnydale will be there to take her out of his hands, take this precious burden from his arms, but the shadows do not move.

Shaking hands move to clear her face, wipe the tears and strands of hair so that he can more fully see her features. Already the mask of death seems to have set in. Her limbs grow colder with every passing minute, her lips grow ashen ..., and he finds he cannot watch this. He cannot allow Willow to die.

Impulsively, he takes her wrist in his hand and looks at the gash there, the wound that threatens to steal her from the world, and from him, forever. Raising the wound to his lips, he kisses the torn flesh, tasting her blood upon his lips. There is fear in her, a painful sense of loss, and, most of all, longing, all of these things warring with each other as her life draws to a close. 

In his arms, he can feel her body fighting the death that is slowly taking over. Her face turns pained as she tries so hard to keep living, to keep breathing ... but Angel knows that death will win over unless ...

The thought catches hold of his mind as soon as it forms. He is damned, and she isn't - however, if he were to ... 

A small whimper of pain escapes her as her heart beat speeds and the panic of imminent death sets in. She does not want to die, he can see this, knows from tasting her blood, and knows just by knowing her. 

Gently Angel pulls her closer to him, her waning heat reminding him of what he is about to do. His face distorts into ridges and fangs, the true visage of his unnatural being, and he cuts into his own wrist. His mind is blank as he watches her, fascinated and repulsed at the same time by the blood staining her lips a dark, deep red. Soon, Willow is latching onto him, reaching for that magical elixir that will damn her soul, but save her from death. 

She moans, the sound vibrating up his limb, and he is struck by how wrong this is. His howl of frustration does nothing to deter her drinking and he lets a tear fall for her, knowing how unfair it all is, that he should not be so selfish, that she should be dying and safe from damnation, but he _is_ selfish and cannot let her go. He only can hope that she will understand. 

The deed is done, the wheels are set in motion - there is nothing more he can do but wait for the tragedy he has created to come to be. Inside he rages, now that he hasn't the choice any longer to change things. His body shakes with his anger - anger at himself for being weak, anger at Powers far too busy to deal with the trivialities of a simple, beautiful life. Leaving it to a demon to deal with the consequences of that lovely soul’s despair.

Tears flow like a river from his eyes, washing away the blood on her lips as they fall on her face.

Time speeds past them, turning the night into a new day as dawn draws perilously close. It is only now, when Angel's instincts scream at him, that he draws himself out of his self-loathing. He did not make her only to have her turn to dust in the first rays of the sun.

Carefully, he picks her up in his trembling arms and leaves the abandoned building to the rats. Picking his way through the debris, he drops to a sewer, the morning light coming quicker than he had thought, and makes his way back to his home at the Hyperion Hotel ... the only place he knows to go.

Up through the basement he carries his precious cargo, silently picking his way through the mass of halls and stairs until he comes to his room. Thankfully, no one is around to see them. Angel knows he cannot deal with the questions that would come if someone saw them. 

Surrounded by a familiar setting now, Angel moves quickly to lay his still-slumbering new Childe on the bed before making sure he will not be disturbed. The walls that surround him are a comfort, even as the full meaning of what he has done slowly begins to sink in.

Stepping towards the bed where Willow is, Angel feels as though each step he takes is leaden, heavy with the guilt of what he has done to the once lively and beautiful young woman he had known. His eyes do not miss anything as he looks her over. Her chest no longer rises with breath, her heart no longer beats, her face pale. 

"I ...," Angel begins to say, but his voice trails off - as if speaking to her like this is blasphemous. Silence is all that should be in a room devoid of life. No apologies are needed because they cannot be heard. They are as useless as the tear that falls upon his cheek.

Sounds echo in his head as he hears movement three stories below him - his co-workers. They call out his name, and Angel freezes all movement, stills every muscle in his body. He prays, though the thought of doing so nearly makes him laugh hysterically, that they will not venture up to his room. How, he wonders, would he ever be able to tell them what has happened? It is not as if they would believe he had no choice. There had been a choice. The choice had been to let her die - but he had not.

Finally, the sounds die away as those that have homes elsewhere leave the hotel. Two have stayed, he notices, but they will not bother him now.

So much damage done in one day, he thinks as he moves closer to Willow. He wants to brush the hair out of her face, but feels he is wrong to do so, and leaves it there. There are now decisions to be made, facts to face. Willow is a vampire now, made by him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

An invisible pressure presses against Willow's chest as she tries, in vain, to draw in a breath. Her chest moves in the motion associated with breathing, but she cannot feel the air move through her body as it ought to. Panic-stricken, she sits bolt upright, expecting to see the horizon with the city dappled out before her, but instead there are only dim lights and walls. Instead of lying on a steel beam as she remembered, she is now comfortable in a bed.

The memories of earlier events are not adding up in her head. Willow's eyes quickly scan her surroundings, taking in everything, and recognizing nothing. Remembering another piece of what should be but isn't, she looks down at her wrist, surprised to find it healed over. That, she knows, should not be ... unless she had been out of it for a long time. Or, she is no longer with it ...

Everything is different. She is not where she knew herself to be, and her body ... there is something wrong with her body. A pain, dull but there, is twisting her stomach into knots as she pushes her feet to the cool floor.

A prickling, that sensation she recognizes from her previous life in Sunnydale, at the back of her neck tells her that she is not alone in the room. Experience tells Willow not to move too quickly or let on to the thing in the room with her that she knows it is there. Carefully, she takes stock of everything, her eyes moving rapidly to find something - anything - that can be used as a weapon if such is needed.

Before Willow can look around to the thing behind her, a scent on the air catches her attention. Salt mixed with a sort of musk that she cannot describe but finds herself drawn to it all the same. This confuses her and further makes her curious and frightened as to what has happened.

Needing answers, unable to wait for the being to make their way to her, Willow stands slowly, and turns to face them. 

Nothing could have prepared her for what her eyes fall upon - Angel. He is the same as she remembers and wonders now if something else has not gone wrong. Before she passed out on the high beam above the city, she could swear she had seen him there, leaning over her with an unreadable expression on his face. But now, as she looks on him, he seems as though he is grieving.

"Angel," Willow whispers, though her voice seems to echo throughout her mind, loud and booming in the small space. Another pain catches her by surprise and Willow quickly grabs at her stomach, her face a mask of pain and questions.

Standing quickly, Angel makes a step towards Willow, but stops, his hands twisting at his sides. He is afraid of what he has done; afraid to let her know for it is obvious to him she does not understand. He can feel the tears prick at his eyes, threatening a downpour, but he holds them at bay.

"Willow," he says just as softly. "I ... I'm sorry." Those words open the floodgates, he sinks back to the chair he had been sitting in, and his head falls to his hands as sobs wrack his body.

His apology seems unwarranted in her mind, confused as she is, and it takes her a moment to do anything other than stare at him in bewilderment. Willow walks slowly around the bed, her movements hampered by the agony in her stomach that doesn't seem to be going away, but it is manageable - for now. She sees his muscles stiffen as she comes closer, though he still does not look up at her.

Unable to stay silent, she says, "Angel, what - what is going on?"

Shaking his head, he finally looks up at her, remorse, guilt, and a million other unnamable emotions streak across his face, stained as it is by his tears. Angel's mouth opens as if to say something, but it seems his words get caught in his throat and he looks away, gathering himself.

"I was too late," he says in a gruff tone.

"Too late for what? I don't, I don't understand."

His eyes make their way back to hers, and this time he does not look away as he speaks. "There was nothing I could do. You were -" his voice cuts out, sobs wanting to break free and choke him. 

The words he speak, they mean nothing and everything to Willow. She knows they are a part of the puzzle, just as the weight on her chest and the pain in her stomach, but she is in no state to be putting the pieces together and the answer still eludes her. Anger bubbles below the surface of her skin - anger at him for not speaking clearly, and anger at herself for not understanding fully what it is he is trying to say.

"What is wrong with me?" Willow's voice is dangerously low, gravelly and the anger pushes out behind it. Angel flinches, as if her words have dealt him a blow. Already she is sick of his dodging and cryptic behavior. He has the answers; she can see that in the way he doesn't look at her for long, in the crease in his brow. 

Inside, Willow can feel something twisting inside of her, a part of her but separate, as if she is housing an animal in her body. It unfurls and stretches through her, seemingly pulling the anger and pain into itself, reveling in it. The sensation is so completely out of the ordinary, that for a moment, Willow forgets where she is and that she is trying to get answers from Angel, but instead focuses her attention inward to this beast, this thing. 

The feeling scares Willow as much as it intrigues her. A movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention and she turns quickly to see Angel standing. His face, though he is trying hard to be guarded, shows his own surprise, as if he too knows what is going on inside of her.

"What did you do?” Willow asks. She stops, wondering why she asked that, why she phrased it like that. However, that was apparently the correct wording because Angel's face is now a mask of pain.

"I told you," he says, trying to keep his voice calm an even. "I was too late. You - you were dying."

"What do you mean I was dying? I'm standing right here." Another jolt of pain shocks Willow for a moment and she doubles over. "What did you do, Angel? Why am I hurting?"

"I couldn't let you ...," he says, but trails off. 

This lack of conviction Angel has that makes him unable to say what needs to be said upsets Willow. In a burst of anger and speed, she throws out a punch that lands squarely on Angel's chin, causing him to fall back into his chair. The punch stuns them both for a second and they stare at each other in mutual disbelief before Willow moves forward. 

"I'm not asking again. Tell me what you did."

Angel nods almost imperceptibly and swallows thickly before speaking. "I didn't know it was you, up there. I went to see if I could help, but ... your wrist." He points to it and Willow once again notices that there is nothing there, not even a scar. "It was deep. I don't know how long you had been bleeding before I got there, but ... I couldn't help you."

"You did something," Willow said, stating the obvious for lack of anything else to say.

Again, he nods. "You have given me more than I could ever repay you for, and I owe you more than just my life. But, I was too late to help you. I had no choice. You were ... you were slipping." He stops, looks away, shame falling off him in waves thick enough to drown in. "I'm sorry."

The puzzle, oddly shaped though it is, slowly comes together in Willow's mind. She had been dying, that much she remembers. The gash on her arm had been too deep, she had bled out for too long ... then Angel had come. She remembered thinking that he had come to save her.

"You made me a vampire," Willow says softly as the last piece clicks into place. It all makes sense to her now, the feelings that are running through her, the way her breathing isn’t doing what she had known it should be … the way Angel looks as if someone has died. She did die. She is dead.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave you like that,” he says softly, standing quickly and moving away from her. He cannot look upon her at this moment, afraid that he will see something there, some spark that she now hates him because he was too weak to let her die as she ought to have done.

Willow watches him, knows that he is feeling grief and a piece of her knows that she too should be feeling hurt or angry that he had done this to her – but she doesn’t. Where those feelings should be, she finds herself almost empty, as if those emotions no longer exist.

A sharp stabbing sensation cuts across her stomach, and this time she falls to the floor, clutching her stomach with the pain. Angel is at her side almost immediately, asking her what is wrong, but she cannot speak through the pain. Her teeth grind down as she tries to take in unneeded air.

“It hurts,” Willow finally manages to say. Her eyes lift up to him and the remorse that had momentarily lifted is back again.

“You need … blood,” he says. 

She watches as his face goes blank. He stands and moves away from her line of sight. Willow tries to follow his movement, but the ache doubles and she curls into a ball on the floor. Something is opened in the distance and closed again, then she hears the soft beeps of a microwave as it is turned on, the hum gives her something to focus on other than the pain. Finally, he comes back towards her. 

The thing that inhabits her, which she now knows is the demon, smells the blood and her face shifts in loud pops and the crunching of bones. The glass with the crimson liquid is close and she reaches for it quickly, tipping the contents back as fast as she can swallow. Almost immediately, the pain in her abdomen subsides, replaced now with a dull ache, easily ignored for now.

“Thank you,” Willow says softly, handing the now empty glass back to Angel. He takes it, sets it aside, and crouches down before her. 

With a shaking hand, Angel reaches out to touch Willow’s face where it has changed into the demon. Her eyes close as he softly traces the ridges of her new mask, enjoying the sensation. Too quickly, however, he pulls away and stands, backing away from her.

“Angel.” She says no more than that, but it is enough to have him shaking again. Full body shakes wrack his body silently as he looks upon her.

“I’m so sorry, Willow,” he says, repeating the four words like a mantra that would eventually make everything all right again.

This goes on for minutes, making Willow uncomfortable, the silence between them. She slowly stands from the floor, dusting off her pants before noticing that there is no hope for them. They are dirty and bloody – ruined. Her line of thought is so trivial to her in the whole of things that she cannot stop the small laugh that bubbles out. It catches her off guard and she covers her mouth, giving Angel a look of apology as he turns to her, almost as if he had forgotten she was there in the room with him.

"Angel, don't. I ... I'm okay. I think," she says, thinking that maybe this will reassure him in some small way. While logically, Willow knows that she is no longer ‘okay’, that she is in fact very far from being all right; she does not feel that anything is truly wrong with her anymore. The hurt and betrayal by her friends, while still a bit tender, no longer carries the same sting she remembers it having.

There is probably something they could say to each other at this moment as they stare silently, but neither can think of anything. Sure, there are trivialities, such as the weather, or the state of Willow’s well being – which is unequivocally dead – but they don’t say such things and instead let the silence hang between them.

Thus begins Willow’s new life in death.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It is a miracle that Willow stands now before him, horrid and grotesque in its beauty – or so Angel thinks. She is looking around at the walls that surround her. He can almost tell what she is thinking, knows that she is reaching out with new senses and new vision at everything around her. She is his third protégé, the third of his kind he has bestowed his blood upon – but the second he regrets. This miracle of a mistake, this young woman – she is not the first he has made while cursed with his soul, but she is the only one that he had known, truly known, while she had been alive – and that makes it even harder to bear.

Angel’s eyes follow her every movement, waiting for the time when she will next surprise him for he knows she will. Even in life she had been full of surprises. A smile ghosts over his face thinking of the young woman before him when they had first met. So shy she had been, so sweet and innocent … definitely not meant for the life he has now bestowed upon her – forced upon her.

The silence stretches on, neither having the need to speak. The silence carries their thoughts, like leaves in the wind, letting one know the feelings of the other. They are linked now in that way only vampires are linked – through their blood.

With fleeting glances, Willow dares to look at him, always looking away quickly away when he catches her eye. She wonders now if there is some sort of unspoken etiquette between them now that she must follow. The multitude of books she had read on this very subject, though Giles never knew, were never clear but always eluded to a sort of hierarchy. Angel is now her Sire, that much she knows, but as for the rest, it is unclear to her and she cannot find any knowledge stored away in her mind. It was silly of her to hope that her demon would have the wisdom she lacks in these matters.

A strange part of Willow wants to laugh at the nervousness with which Angel is wringing his hands, but she holds back. He has something he wants to say to her, more than likely another apology, she thinks, but he does not speak and the silence is starting to eat away at her.

“Angel,” Willow says softly, moving towards him. He looks up sharply as if she startled him. “It’s okay. I – I understand.” The words are out of her mouth before she knows she is going to say them, but she knows they are the right ones. He nods quickly and looks away.

Those words do nothing to ease Angel’s internal suffering as he mentally berates himself once more. The understanding is so much like the Willow he had known, he thinks, and it only serves to make it that much harder for him to look at her. He wonders if it would be easier for him if she was drastically different, if she was enough of a demon so that he would have no qualms about destroying her, or finding another to do the deed. However, the softness and quiet demeanor only reinforces the knowledge that Angel killed and turned an innocent, someone undeserving of such a damned existence.

Silently, Angel vows to protect her. She is his now, completely, and will be until one of them turns to dust. Though he vows this protection, he also pledges not to inform anyone of this … new development until he figures out a way to explain his actions.

He shakes his head at his own thoughts. Angel no more understands his reasoning than he understands his own physiological make-up, or why the sun comes over the horizon each day. Blaming it on a weakness would serve no purpose other than for his co-workers to scrutinize him under a microscope – which he does not want to be subject to.

The image of Willow drinking the blood skitters across his mind like a nightmare, the fangs glistening in his memory, red with blood. He glances at her to see if she is still wearing the mask of her demon, but she is not, and for a horrid, heart-wrenching moment, he thinks that it has all been a dream.

“Willow …,” he begins to say, but the words that would come after that are now lost as she turns her green eyes, vibrant and dancing in the soft light of the room, on him. He knows not what to say to her now. Nothing is important any longer. Angel is fairly certain she understands what she is and what this means. Anything he has to say on the subject would be trivial and would sound almost juvenile coming from him.

“Yes?” Willow prompts after a few moments of silence.

“I … Nevermind.” Angel shakes his head. There is nothing he can say to apologize enough, to reverse what he has done to her, so he prefers to say nothing at all.

Heaving a sigh, Willow turns from him, slightly frustrated by him and his inability to talk to her. What she does not see as she looks away is the way he is now looking upon her, taking in everything about her that he dares not while she can see him.

Taking in the sight before him, Angel acknowledges, to himself at least, that she is a truly beautiful creature. True, he will never say such out loud, possible afraid of recrimination for such thoughts, but he holds onto it in his own heart and mind. If nothing else, there is a possibility that they will be able to help each other through this blunder of his.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The idea of sitting there, alone except for the fact that Angel is sitting there with her, never conversing with each other, is starting to upset Willow. Already she has gone through her own memories, hoping that nothing has been lost or forgotten in her death. She feels that she cannot be her if she is without her memories, the things that separate her from other people. Life experiences. While she finds that she can no longer associate the same emotions she had felt then with the memories now, the fact that she remembers feeling a certain way during a certain time helps to reassure her that she has not lost any part of her during her _change_. Her life with Tara, as well as her lover’s death are still with her, as is the two people she had killed. 

Willow had thought that in remembering the deaths of both Rack and Warren, her demon would latch onto that part of her dark past and manipulate her feelings now – but nothing happens. Instead of rejoicing in the deaths, she feels nothing. No regret, certainly, but no joy or even a bit of keen interest to relive it. This, for some reason, deeply concerns her and makes her worry about her psyche.

“Angel,” Willow says, tentatively breaking through the thick air that hangs heavy between them. He looks up, not into her eyes, but just over her shoulder. She only takes a slight offense to it, but pushes on, worried about her own well-being. “I think I’m broken.”

Her wording, while wrong, still expresses what she is trying to tell him, but Angel breaks down, his eyes filling with tears again as he looks away. Willow wonders how many tears he can have left for her.

It is unsettling to Willow to think that Angel is so affected by her death when he had not spent the time to know her in her life. However, a part of her that connects her to him feels she should some how ease his suffering, apologize for her bumbled wording. 

Still unsure of her place in his world, Willow moves closer to him and rests a hand on his shoulder. He does not move, nor does he push her away. In her mind that is progress and she sits herself on the arm of the chair he has made his new home.

Being this close to him sparks her innate nature, making her want to please him, or at the very least, stem the flow of tears from his eyes. Gently, she pulls him closer to her, sighing softly when he complies. Running her hand through his hair, she coos to him softly, hoping her whispered apologies will break through the fog of his self-loathing.

“Shh, it’s ok Angel. I’m sorry I said that. It came out wrong,” she says gently, just loud enough for the two of them to hear. 

Pain and repulsion war with caring and concern deep inside Angel at her touch. While her soft words and caresses draw him in, he feels he does not deserve such things. Pushing her away right now would be the best thing, for them both, but he doesn’t, sub-consciously needing that touch and reassurance, and he greedily takes whatever she is offering at this point - anything to ease his internal torment.

“Angel, please talk to me,” Willow says after a few moments, testing the waters between them. “Say something. Anything. I don’t know how to help you.”

“I’m sorry, Willow,” Angel says, unable to say anything else. He leans into her more; hoping that somehow her heat will return to her and her heart will beat again if he wills it so.

“Why?” she asks. The first apology was understandable to her, even the second one, but multitudes of them are not necessary. She hopes by forcing him to state what he is keeping for himself that he will then let go of this need to express his regrets. She feels him move against her and pulls away only enough to look at him, her hands never leaving his shoulder.

Angel swallows hard, looking deeply into her, and then speaks in a rush. “For what I’ve done to you. I took your life away and gave you something you didn’t ask for. I – I didn’t save you.” 

This is … maybe not what she had expected to hear, but close enough, and enough like Angel that she lets a small, sympathetic smile cross her face. She wonders if there is a way she can speak to him, make him understand that she is not mad, or upset by this turn of events. However, she knows that he would not see it as her speaking, but as a demon, a vampire, but she has to try, if not for him, then for herself at least.

“Angel,” Willow says softly, “look at me.” She waits while he turns his eyes upon her. “I was dying. I knew that when I saw you standing over me, even though I didn’t know it was you, I remember thinking it was an angel. And I was right.” He looks ready to protest, but Willow stems his words with a single finger on his lips, silently asking him to let her finish. “If you had let me die up there … Angel, I would have gone to Hell.”

Vehemently, Angel shakes his head. “Never,” he chokes out.

“Yes, I would have, and for good reason. I’ve killed.” She pauses, letting that sink in, letting those words reverberate in the small space between them. “I’ve killed two human beings, and I would have gone to Hell for those murders.”

It does not surprise Willow that Angel is now looking as if he no longer knows the woman over which he is crying. She had imagined that she had been Buffy’s _skeleton in the closet_ , so to speak, combined with the fact that it was a rare occasion anyone in Sunnydale spoke of Angel also led her to believe that he would know nothing. 

“But …,” Angel says, trailing off, baffled by what he has just been told.

A laugh, inappropriate and startling, escapes Willow and she tamps down on it immediately upon seeing the pain on Angel’s face. Death, she knows intellectually, should not be laughed at, but she could not help herself. Angel’s naiveté is quite amusing to her.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” Willow says, hoping to appease him in any way possible. There is a certain decorum she must adhere to, she knows, when dealing with Angel. “But, it is a long story.” Even without speaking, she can tell that Angel is silently asking her for more details, but this much has already made her tired of talking. There would always be more to say, and because of her current state, she literally has all the time in the world to say it.

“I’ll tell you, in time, but right now, I need a shower, some clean clothes, and some fresh air,” Willow says standing up. She is pleased to see that the tears are no longer falling from his eyes. “Do you mind?”

He stands as well, saying, “I – no, go ahead.” She is already walking away from him, looking around the room. He can see in the way she holds herself that she is not the same. It is hard for him to reconcile his knowledge of Willow with this new knowledge that she has killed, not once, but twice, as a human.

“Do you have any clothes I can borrow?” Willow asks, breaking through his own thoughts. Blindly, Angel points to an armoire on the far wall. He is still shocked, she can tell, his eyes are glazed and he is not even paying attention to anything around him.

Walking over to the drawers, she sifts through the few things in there, pulling out something simple and easy – a black t-shirt and a pair of matching sweat pats. 

“Bathroom?” she asks. He points to a door on the other side of the room, and she walks to it, glancing over her shoulder before closing the door behind her. 

Leaning against the door, Willow presses her forehead to the cooler wood, taking deep, now unneeded breaths. She can feel Angel’s emotions wash across her in harsh waves, big enough to drown in. He is unintentionally flooding her with his worry and grief, making her choke on it. Closing her eyes, Willow whispers a small protection spell she had learned while in England with Giles. It would not stop the flow, for Willow did not want it to stop necessarily, but it would stem the flow to a more manageable level.

As Willow speaks the last word, ending the small incantation, she can almost immediately feel the weight being lifted from her chest.

Feeling clearer, she walks to the tub and turns on the water, her body craving warmth. Inside, she realizes she can no longer feel the heat that had once been there. It is not a freezing cold that seeps through, but something just chilly enough to feel, just edgy enough to make her aware of it. 

Flipping it to the shower, she strips and climbs in, hissing as the first spray hits her, like fire on ice, almost sizzling her skin. But, as it sinks in, she lets out a sigh on contentment. It is as if she could stand under that spray for hours and be content, soaking up the warmth from the water. However, she knows she cannot do that and begins to wash herself. 

Willow notices that there is no blood on her arm from the cut that had nearly killed her. There is also no scar, not even a blemish to prove that that part of her life, that snippet of her lowest moment had even happened. She is unsure if she is happy about this or not. Instead of dwelling on it, she simply shrugs it off and finishes her shower.

Stepping out of the tub Willow grabs her towel and begins drying her hair. Turning towards the sink, she finds the mirror hanging above it. Yet, nothing looks back at her. No reflection just a blank white wall staring back at her. It is somewhat disturbing to her since she had not even thought about not having a reflection. Though somewhere on the wall, she sees a shadow, where she should be.

Not wanting to linger in the room that reminded her so much of what she could no longer be, Willow quickly dressed and left the bathroom.

Oddly, Willow wasn't surprised to see that Angel had not moved from his position on the chair next to the bed. Now, Willow was at a loss as to what to do or say, therefore, she decided to test a few of her new abilities. Just for fun. She let her eyes roam over the room. Even in her human visage she could see everything clearly, the bed with a navy blue satin sheets, the dresser with just a few things on it next to the bed, weapons on the wall. She should've known those would be there. There was another small sitting area off to the side of the bathroom, a bookcase, filled to bursting, sat to the side of one of the chairs. She noticed that the furniture was tasteful, if not a bit brooding in appearance. However, that was exactly what she would expect to find in the room occupied by a 256 year-old vampire with a soul working his way to redemption.

The entire hotel seemed to be sleeping. As if nothing other than them were occupying it - only the dead. However, underlying the silence was a soft something, almost like a drum. Cocking her head to the side, Willow listened more closely. At first, she could not distinguish what that soft noise was. However, suddenly, it came to her. She knew without knowing that it was a heartbeat.

“Angel,” she asked softly. “Who else is here?”

Those dark, deep, brown eyes turned in fear to her. He had forgotten that there were others in the hotel besides them. Slowly he stood, carefully walking towards Willow as if she were dangerous, thinking she would crave their blood.

“I have,” he pauses wondering if he should tell her not, “some friends staying here. Cordelia.”

Willow smiles, remembering her old high school nemesis. With her smile Angel became even more cautious.

“Please, Angel,” Willow said softly. “Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to eat her.” A soft chuckle escaped her lips. And even that caused him grief. While he may be her Sire, she felt that she would be the one taking care of him and not the other way around.

“OK,” Angel said backing down just a little, but his eyes remained ever on her. They were only standing a few foot feet apart from each other. His eyes slowly looked her up and down. Perhaps taking size, admiring his work? She didn’t know.

Something inside of Willow pushed her foreword, small inches at a time, creeping her way closer and closer to Angel. Her hand reached out as if on its own volition and touched him along his jaw line and down his neck to where his pulse point would be had he had one. Angel’s eyes drifted closed her touch. And as she brought her hand away his eyes snapped open to stare at her, wondering both why she stopped and why she began.

Willow stepped away; unsure of what to do now, but knowing she couldn't just stay there, sitting across from him, not talking. Looking into his eyes she asks, “Can I get some fresh air?”

He looked perplexed for a moment, unsure if she was asking for just that, or perhaps more. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it.

“Just ask,” she said, trying to alleviate his unease.

With eyes averted, Angel says, “Why is it you want to go outside? Are you... hungry?”

“No,” Willow said, another smile gracing her face, “Sire. I'm not hungry. I don't want go out to hunt, I want go out and stretch my legs get some fresh air.”

“Oh,” he said, just a little embarrassed. “Okay... well. We can go then.” He paused; looking up at her. “You do want me to go, right?”

“Yes, Angel. I want you to come along. Maybe... Maybe we can talk.”

He nods and begins to walk out of the room, Willow following close behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Together, their steps are silent and evenly matched. The night air whips through the alley as they pass it, buffeting against them. Willow can smell the death down there in the darkness, the stench of the diseased and dying. She wants to ask why Angel does not help those they have just passed, why he does not lend a hand to everyone, but cannot find the words to start the conversation. Surely she shouldn't be thinking about them, not like that at least. She should be more intrigued with the young couple walking towards them. However, they are smiling, happy. The couple turns away from her and Angel and cross the street, probably sensing the turmoil and tension between them, the lack of smiles on their faces, and the space stringently kept between them. 

”So,” Willow says tentatively, feeling the need to fill the silence with something other than the bustle of the world around them. “What’s new with you?”

Angel turns his head and looks at her with a blank face. He is not sure why she is asking that, and is even more surprised she hasn’t tried to go after the couple that just passed so near to them. Her words, odd though they seem, are starting to make Angel wonder. Is there something wrong with how he had made Willow?

“We don’t have to do the whole small talk, if you don’t want to,” he says finally, looking back out at the night. Truthfully, it is that _he_ doesn’t want the small talk. Or talk period. Silence suits him, but he knows better than to expect that from Willow … in any incarnation he muses.

“I wasn”t …,” Willow starts to say, but falls silent because he is right and there really is no point in arguing. She wonders, what had been the point of her question? Did she expect the old friendship? Had they ever had a friendship? She doesn’t know, but had thought so at one point – long ago now. Too much has changed in recent days, and even since he had left Sunnydale, for her to expect much from him in the form of friend-like behavior. She only wants to ease some of the tension surrounding them. Without thinking about it Willow can almost sense that he is upset, but not at her... at himself. The emotion is nearly choking her the more she focuses on it making it feel thick sliding down her throat as she swallows reflexively.

“I was wondering,” Willow tries again. “How long has it been since, well, since you found me?” Back in Sunnydale, before things had gone so horridly wrong for her, Willow had often found herself nose-deep in the pages of one of Giles’ many books. It hadn’t mattered to her what they were about demons, Slayers, vampires, or magic. It had all intrigued her. However, somewhere along the way she had encompassed a broad knowledge for the other side of life most humans knew nothing of. Her question is born from that knowledge and the fear that she is somehow different than what she had thought she would be. She had after all met a vampiric version of herself once upon a time and she is nothing like that Willow had been, hence her curiosity.

“Yesterday,” Angel says sorrow evident in his voice. She is making him think about things he would much prefer to avoid, but he finds he cannot deny her any answers she seeks. After all, she was not the one to choose this lifestyle but rather he had forced it upon her in a time of great weakness.

“That was quick,” Willow says, thinking out loud. The books she has read were never terribly specific about the time frame it took to turn someone from human to vampire. The Watcher’s Council seemed to agree upon a time of three days, while other books tended to be vague saying that it depended on the maker and the potency of the blood used and of the victim, whether they were to be a protégé or simply a minion, someone to serve only. 

Angel gives a grunt, but says nothing.

“Look, Angel, we really need to talk, but I don’t know what to say to you,” Willow says finally after a few more minutes of silence. She is becoming exasperated with his stand-off-ish nature. Silence would solve nothing and she refuses to let him dig a hole of misery on her account.

Brown eyes seek her out for a moment before Angel stops and sighs, turning to her. He nods, but nothing more. Willow rolls her eyes and looks around them for a moment. Another couple is walking towards them, hand in hand. It must be the night for them, she thinks. The young woman laughs as the man whispers in her ear. They look happy, peaceful, enjoying the other’s presence. Willow smiles and sighs, catching the couples scent as she inhales again. She can smell the sex that still lingers on them, the heavy floral perfume of the woman and the musky cologne of the man. Under all of that is the unmistakable scent of life, of blood. It is intoxicating and Willow sways as she closes her eyes and inhales deeply, letting the scents linger on the back of her tongue so that she can taste them.

The pretty young blonde woman turns her soft blue eyes towards Willow and her smile falters for a moment. Willow wonders if the woman can sense the otherworldliness of them. It is possible. Many people have that sort of ‘other sense’ that lets their body warn them about unseen dangers, though they can never put their finger on just what has caused that feeling to creep up their spine. The man, however, is too enamored with the woman and seems oblivious to the danger they are headed towards.

“Angel?” Willow asks, turning towards him, her face scrunched in confusion. She feels something stir inside of her and a craving she has never felt before makes itself known in the presence of the humans. Without realizing what she is doing, her eyes turn back to the woman and man, her eyes locking on their throats, on the throbbing piece of meat as they walk closer. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips and she imagines she can taste the sweet coppery blood yet to be spilled. Fear is now rolling off both the humans and it spices the air. Without warning, Willow’s features shift, and the two humans who only moments ago had been blissfully happy, are trapped to the spot, drowning in fear.

Willow takes a step forward before her movement is halted by a strong arm that flings against a wall; Angel’s face now blocking her view of the humans.

“Willow, no,” he says, his voice soft, but she hears the command behind the words and feels her body instantly react. Her face slips back to human as she hears the hurried footsteps of the couple running in the opposite direction.

“I – I don’t know what ...,” Willow tries to say, panting involuntarily as she tries to get her body and emotions under control. When she suggested the walk, she’d had no intentions of hunting, and honestly had not even thought humans would be out so late. Though, Sunnydale should have taught her otherwise. She hadn’t been thinking. But the scent had caught her and pulled the demon out of its seeming slumber. The spicy fear mixed with the heady scent of their love for each other was intoxicating and is still playing havoc with her mind and body.

“Home. Now,” Angel says gruffly, pushing her ahead of him. He is angry. A little at Willow because he thinks she tricked him into coming out into the night for just a ‘walk’, but he is also angry at himself for not realizing this would happen and for not anticipating better. She is newly turned and he should know better. How long has it been though, since he’s had to consider such things? How many decades have passed since he’s had to care for another of his offspring? Too many, and he silently curses himself for his sheer stupidity.

Realizing he is about to make the same mistake twice, he takes hold of her upper arm and practically escorts her back to the hotel, careful to stay well away from any other wandering humans.

Silently and obediently, Willow lets herself be led not wanting to upset him further. His displeasure is almost palpable and it pains her to feel him angry with her. It wasn’t her fault, not entirely; she just hadn’t anticipated her reaction.

Something is so very wrong with her.

With stiff motions, Angel opens the door and pushes Willow into the lobby, watching as she sulks off to the circular couch in the middle of the room and flops down. He can’t tell if she is upset at him or herself.

“You cannot hunt humans,” Angel says, pacing in front of her. “Not while I’m around. I won’t stand for it.” She doesn’t look up at him and it takes all he has not to grab her chin and force her eyes to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” she says softly, her toe kicking at the floor while pointedly avoiding looking at him. It is bad enough that she lost control, now she feels the pang of upsetting him on top of the hunger. So many things are running through her that she is having a hard time processing them all. New feelings, new thoughts, new life – or unlife as it were she supposes – nothing is the same anymore, and yet she can't seem to reconcile the differences.

Willow feels the cushion next to her sink as Angel takes a seat next to her. His breath comes out in an audible sigh as he says, “No, I’m sorry Willow. I … should have known better. You’re young, unskilled. I knew better than to take you out tonight. I just … I just thought …” His voice trails off, tears heavy and salty on the air.

“You just thought I was the old Willow,” she says, finishing his sentence for him. He nods. 

There is nothing else to say between them, they both know that words are useless at this point, their feelings are evident.

After a few long moments Willow’s hand moves to her stomach and she turns to look at Angel, silently willing him to look at her, to know what she needs so that she won’t have to tell him. She knows that if she enunciates what her body is telling her, it will only upset him further, and she does not want to do that, no matter how frustrating it is for him to be so closed off to her.

Finally, she cannot wait for him to get a clue any longer and speaks up, though her voice is barely above a whisper. “Uh, Angel,” Willow says softly. He turns to her and sees the pain evident in her eyes, understanding dawning on him at long last.

“Oh,” he says, standing up, suddenly looking nervous. “I, uh, have some pig’s blood in the refrigerator in my room. Would you want too…,” he says trailing off. Willow nods and follows him up to his room.

“Thank you,” she says, walking into the room behind him. “I didn’t know how to ask“”

“It’s okay. I haven’t been doing a good job so far. This is hard for me.”

“I know. I feel it.””

“How?” Angel asks, clearly baffled.

“The bond,” she says simply.

The blank look on his face nearly makes Willow laugh, but she holds back. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve needed … I’ve shut the others off.” He looks away quickly, and Willow feels a pang of sympathy for him. She knows how it feels to be cut off from everything and everyone, from what was once her family – even before her … transformation.

While Angel busies himself with preparing the blood for her, Willow takes a moment to look over his room, remembering everything that has happened in the last five or six hours. She shakes her head, thinking that it has been much longer than that. Walking over to the little kitchenette, she watches as Angel pulls out two large mugs and two bags of blood. After heating them up in the microwave, he hands one to Willow and they sit down in the little sitting area in his room, nice and cozy.

Willow sips at the blood, tasting it for the first time, and makes a face of disgust. Her first taste of blood was Angel’s and what she holds in her hands now is akin to mud.

“Sorry, I know it’s not exactly good. But, it”s blood,” Angel says, taking the mug from her after she finishes and rinses it off in the little sink.

“No, it’s okay, Angel, I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, awkward once more.

Silence falls quickly and heavy upon them, oppressing. Willow fidgets in her chair, waiting for it to end, realizing finally that it will not unless she ends it.

“So,” she says, her voice nearly echoing, “we have a lot to talk about. Where do you want to start?”

Angel sighs, clearly unhappy with her straight forward question. He would be much happier to hold off this conversation for a little while, but he knows that would be impossible, and gives up trying before he s“arts. ’I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll start, and you can ask questions along the way.”

“Alright.”

“Right, so, where to begin,” Willow says, thinking aloud. Granted, this isn’t the kind of talking she had in mind, but it is better than just sitting there staring at the cracked wall paper and hoping Angel will say something. Granted, she has the time to spare now, she realizes, but that is not the point.

“After I resurrected Buffy, I kind of went overboard on my magic. I started doing spells for everything. Tara got concerned. She said I should stop, and I tried, but I couldn’t. I was addicted…”

The story goes on in an almost detached and clinical way because if Willow stops and tries to analyze everything, she will go mad. Angel does not try to interrupt, does not ask one single question, and never looks directly at her. Willow can’t tell if he is actually paying attention to her or if he is trying to take it all in. She thinks she should be thankful, unsure if she could stop the story now that it is flowing freely. It pours out of her, all the pain, the hurt, and the anger. So much anger. Willow did not know until that moment just how much she has carried with her.

“After Tara died, I went crazy … again. I got deep into black magic. I killed the guy who shot her. I killed my magic supplier and I almost killed Dawn. I even tried to end the world.” A small hiccup, something between a sob and a laugh escapes her. “Xander was able to stop me. I … I stopped practicing after that. Cold turkey. Everyone still thought I was going to go off the deep end one day. I couldn’t take anymore of their looks or whispered remarks behind my back, so I ran away. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. Days, weeks, months. It’s all a blur to me. Then, I end up here in LA, with a gash on my wrist. I didn’t want to die Angel. I thought I wanted to a few times, but I didn’t, not really.”

The silence comes again, but this time Willow doesn't even notice for long moments, her own mind running through the events that had brought her to this exact place in time and how if she had it to do any different, she isn’t sure what she would change.

Angel sits there, silent and unmoving, not showing any emotion.

“Angel?”

“I didn”t save you,” he says finally. “I killed you just as much as that cut would have done, only I did one worse. I made you a vampire. Damned.” He stands up suddenly, unblinking as the chair topples over, the sound of it hitting the floor is loud in the silence. He walks over to a window, looking out into the dark night and bright lights of the city. “I’m sorry Willow. I’m sorry for everything you have had to endure. I’m sorry I didn’t save you in time. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed someone the most. I’m just … sorry.”

Standing up, Willow walks over to him and kneels at his feet, reaching around his legs and rubs her cheek against his thigh. They have both been through so much, and neither fully grasps what the other has had to deal with. But, in time, it is possible they will understand. Right now, however, they need the comfort.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 

He mourns the loss of the Willow he knew, even as he sits there, cradling the shadow of her in his arms. She is cold now. No human warmth left in her. Although, inhaling deeply, he notices the scent of her former life still lingers in her hair an on her skin. He still remembers the taste of her blood. Oh, but he is a masochistic son of a bitch. Gently, he pushes her away and lays a small kiss on her forehead. Lifting her head she looks up at him with those questioning eyes, but he does not have the answers.

“I need to go … think,” he whispers. Too much has happened in too short a time frame and he feels he is still in shock from it all.

“Do you hate me, Angel?” Willow asks, turning now to watch as he walks away from her. She stays seated on the floor. He does not understand the question because how could he hate someone who had no choice given to them?

“Oh, Willow,” he says, holding out his hand to help her stand. “I could never hate you. Never. If I hate anyone, it’s myself.“

“Yeah,” she says with laughter evident in her voice, “you were always good at that.”

Angel holds her at arms length for a moment to study her. She looks the same. Her skin is barely a shade paler than what it had been in life. Her hair, he had loved her hair then, and death has only served to bring out the brilliance of those fiery tresses. And those emerald eyes, he finds them the hardest to look at. He remembers looking into those eyes and seeing her soul. Now he can almost imagine it is still there. Wishful thinking on his part. He sighs. Willow is no longer the young girl he had once known. Her story alone is proof of that. He pulls her close and kisses her temple before leaving. He needs to think; to brood as he’d called it once.

’It’s almost dawn,” Angel says just before leaving the room. He quickly glances at the drape covered windows, making sure they are secured shut. “Get some rest. I’ll be back later.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but she beats him to the punch.

"I know, Angel. Don't leave the room."

"Look, I'm sorry. It's just that--"

"It's ok. I understand," she says cutting him off. "Now go - brood."

He nods and smiles a sort of ‘thank you’ as he leaves the room. Angel lets out a breath of air he hadn’t known he’d been holding. It is too easy, he realizes, to forget Willow is a vampire now. She is just as perceptive, just as caring and understanding as she had been in life. It makes her story seem all that more improbable, though he knew that she would not lie about such things. He wonders once more why this has happened to him, and to her.

Suddenly, as if stepping away from Willow has allowed the world to come rushing back in on him, he remembers Cordelia and her visions. His steps light and quick he rushes down to his office to check his message pad and answering machine, wondering if Cordelia had a vision. Nothing. No message, written or spoken. It was unlikely she would have forgotten to leave a message, especially if it had been about Willow. No, Angel is sure she would have tried her hardest to get ahold of him had it been about anyone Cordelia knew or had known.

Finally, Angel really listens and hears a faint heartbeat far off in the hotel. He hears the soft rhythm of a human sleeping. Only now he realizes that must be the heartbeat Willow had heard earlier.

Being away from Willow now makes everything seem like a dream and Angel has now woke from it. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reaches Cordelia’s room in a matter of seconds. Her room has an eastern exposure, and only realizing that at the last moment is all that keeps him from barging into her space.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Angel knocks a few times on the door. Not hard, but loud enough to echo down the empty hallway. He is not getting an answer. Listening closely he can hear her snoring softly. Sighing he steps back and leans on the wall opposite the door. He is desperate for answers, any answers that may tell him if the Powers that Be had previous knowledge of Willow’s demise. Luckily, he has his very own line to the Powers themselves. If only she would wake up.

Angel knocks a little louder this time and finally hears her stiring. “Cordelia.“

“Angel? What in god’s name are you doing pounding on my door at … six am?! This had better be good mister!” He hears Cordelia’s voice grow louder the closer she comes to the door. She flings the door open and gives a satisfied smirk as Angel quickly dodges a rather bright ray of sunlight. A scorched scent fills the hall and he realizes he wasn’t quick enough. 

"Serves you right," she says smugly. "Now what is it you want that can't wait?"

"Did you have a vision in the past two days?" he asks hopefully. While he knows that if she did have one, then he has failed. However, Angel finds the idea of failing much more acceptable than the alternative theory – that the Powers that Be did not care enough for this one humans life to feel the need to intervene.

"No, I've been blessed with a vision free week," she says smiling. Her smile falls when she sees his face.

"Angel? What is it? What's wrong?" she asks.

He cannot stand there to explain to her. Rage fills him and threatens to unravel what little control he has left after this trying night. If he does not walk away from her right now, he might hurt her and would regret it deeply. Half-demon or not, he would surely hurt her. She isn’t the target of his anger anyway. She has no control over what visions she receives or who they are about, she is just the vessel handing messages from Being’s too self-important to do their own dirty work.

Walking down to the basement, Angel is a ball of tensed muscles and coiled anger just waiting to strike out at something. With a loud growl he punches a whole in the wall on his way down.

As soon as he hits the basement he lets loose. Angel’s fist crashes through the banister leading down and it splinters into hundreds of dangerous and sharp pieces. Reaching for the nearest object, a metal rack filled with things he’s never taken the time to notice, he flings it across the basement. Kicking out at a post with the flat of his foot, he makes a dent in the metal, bending it slightly in the middle and causing a flurry of dust to spill from the beams above him. He barely registers that destroying foundation support is a bad idea.

The random and needless destruction of inconsequential things goes on for a while longer. Angel yells and screams when the destruction is not enough to release the hurt and anger he feels. Tears burn his eyes and blur his vision and it is still not enough, but the fight goes out of him and he falls boneless to the floor - debris scattered everywhere.

He wonders why the Powers would not send a vision about Willow. Especially since she is fighting, or was fighting until recently, on the side of good. Do they not care anymore, he wonders? Willow was one to fight with everything she had, with more courage than her tiny body could contain, even though it shook with fear. And what have they done? They have let her die. Let her become a victim of his own pity and carelessness; of his love for one who had done so much to help him.

Angel doesn’t know if he can be her Sire – truly in the way that she needs. It has been too long, and it would be coming so close to letting that part of himself, the one he keeps well hidden, come to the surface. He isn’t sure he would be able to control it, and in turn her.

It seems that everything keeps piling up on him, just one problem after another. He just finished dealing with Connor’s betrayal, having tossed him from the hotel. Angel can barely remember the last time he got some real rest. Over the years he has wanted to throw in the towel, give himself up to the sun and admit defeat. It’s almost as though he’s come so far that surely there must be an end to it all. Not to mention, he now has Willow to protect.

The hotel is quiet now since he finished his tirade. He listens and hears Cordelia sleeping again. Obviously his distress did not affect her as he thought it would. He cannot hear Willow – no rustling, no movement, nothing. It is possible she is sleeping like he suggested, or perhaps she has gone … though with the sun now high in the sky, that is highly unlikely. Pulling himself back together, Angel goes upstairs to check on her.

Fearing the silence, he gets to his room quickly only to not see Willow upon entering the room. Panic settles in quickly, but is squelched as he hears soft breathing coming from the mountain of covers upon his bed. He watches her sleep, breathing in unneeded air, and contemplates her fate now that he has interfered. Angel wonders if he can control her – truly control her and keep her beastly side at bay. Thus far, it seems as though it might just be possible. Willow has done well, she did not attack the humans outside, nor did she bolt straight for Cordelia. It is odd for a newborn to be this … complacent. 

Grabbing one of the chairs from his sitting area, Angel turns it to face the bed and his sleeping charge. She looks so peaceful in sleep. Human again, though she never will be again. He notices muscles twitching, her swallowing involuntarily, just little reflexes from her life as a human kicking in. It adds to the illusion, he muses, and for just a moment he almost forgets Willow is dead.

A yawn catches him off guard – the impromptu explosion of energy in the basement along with the events of the past few days have finally caught up to Angel and he finds he is drained both mentally and physically. His eyes close, just for a minute he tells himself, and then he is asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

A dream gently pulls Angel into its folds, enveloping him in the arms of another. Softly, he kisses her bare shoulder, making his way slowly to her sweet neck. She is soft, and fits so well spooned next to him. He can feel the roundness of her hips and buttocks as it presses into him. A small moan escapes her lips as he nuzzles her neck, exciting him. She turns in his arms and wraps one of her legs over his hip and kisses him on the mouth slowly, deeply, soft lips and tongue nip and lick and trill him. Their hips move against each other and he groans at the contact. It has been so long, so damn long since he has been this close to another.

“Angel,” she whispers as her lips trail kisses along his jawline. He pulls her closer with a ferocity that surprises even himself. He cannot seem to get enough contact. Her hand combs through his hair and trails down his back, to his waist, and cups him through his boxers. Greedily he grinds himself into her eager hand. Her lips come back to kiss him again with teasing nips and deliciously wet licks – tasting and taking slowly. Finally, he opens his eyes.

“Willow?!” Angel exclaims, shocked to find himself in the same position he was in his dream … that may not have been a dream now. He sees she really is naked next to him, his hard erection grasped firmly in her petite hand, leg tossed over his hips as if eagerly awaiting him to take her. And he does want to take her, but he holds back, staying perfectly still. He is afraid any movement of any kind would lead to something wonderful and frightening in it’s wrongness. Working backwards Angel thinks of falling asleep in the chair facing the bed but he has no memory of taking his clothes off and crawling into bed.

With a deep breath, and more control than he’s had to exert in a long, long time, Angel extricates himself from the tangle of covers and Willow’s limbs.

“I …I …,” Angel stutters, unable to get his mind and his mouth to work in sync. “How? I was …,” he points to the chair, then to the bed. ’“I’m sorry, Willow.” Unable to form any more coherent words, he just stares at her, finally comprehending what his eyes had been trying to show him. Willow is naked to her waist, her torso, curves, and flat stomach there for him to see. He visibly swallows and barely is able to stop himself from groaning aloud. He has to shake himself and force his eyes closed before he can regain control over himself.

Willow simply looks at him, and it is a look full of lust and desire. Try as he might, he cannot comprehend how he ended up in bed with her. Slowly, Angel stands and backs up. Suddenly the chair is behind him and he falls to his ass on the cushions. Now that his eyes are open again, he cannot force them away … though a tiny part of him admits he doesn’t want to. 

Slowly, she stands up, the satin sheet trailing down her body like liquid as she moves, revealing everything she that is hers to offer – and she is offering. Silently, sweetly she offers herself. 

Again his eyes close and even with them closed, his memory has already etched her in his mind. He peeks through his lashes and sees her walking seductively towards him, hips swaying with each step. “Willow,” he manages to choke out. She stops just a few feet away from him and lets those swirling green eyes speak more than words could ever say.

She wants him. He knows it, and she knows he knows. There’s no escaping the desire that hangs heavy in the air and in his boxers. Pheromones seem to make the air thick and hard to breath – but he licks his lips, tasting her scent on the air.

“We can’t … I mean, we shouldn’t … I - I’m sorry,” he says quickly as he scrambles to stand and practically runs for the bathroom. As soon as Angel clears the door he shuts it quickly, locks it, and leans back against it. Taking a deep breath, one that is somewhat clear of Willow’s intoxicating scent helps to clear his mind from the fog of lust that had it trapped.

Alone now, Angel looks around him for more of an escape. Spotting the shower, he undresses and turns the water on, leaving it on the chillier side of room temperature, and steps in. He curses to himself as the water hits his skin, the shock of it finally taking him out of the fog his brain is hiding in.

Taking a deep breath, his mind makes another leap, and one in a more productive direction … what will he do with her today? There’s no way Angel can just leave her locked up in his room. Well, technically he can, but he knows that will not go over well. The inevitability of her meeting his co-workers is staring him in the face and the thought of it was almost more unnerving than the idea of Willow naked next to him. Almost.

Angel shakes his head to derail that train of thought and focuses again on immediate goals. Clothes, she needs clothes. Willow will also need to feed more frequently as a fledgling. Keeping her full and sated will reduce her natural blood-lust from getting the better of her. There are a few ground rules he needs to lay out first and foremost. No biting his friends being number one. Angel also decides that he needs to be the one to announce her … death.

In his mind, he can just hear her words from the other night – ‘I think I’m broken’. He still does not know what she meant by that. She isn’t broken. She’s just not … human anymore.

The looming dread of all the questions Angel will have thrown at him at that proclamation hangs over him as he steps from the shower and dries off. There is a certain appeal to just locking themselves upstairs, but he knows his friends and knows they will be up sooner or later to make sure he is alright and not … brooding, as Cordelia believes him to do.

Cursing softly, Angel realizes he forgot to bring clothes into the bathroom when he’d made his hasty retreat into the relative safety of the non-Willow-containing room. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he tentatively steps out of the bathroom and sighs with relieve as he notices Willow has slipped back into a t-shirt and sweatpants. It takes the edge off not seeing her naked and sitting on his bed. Something about that just … gets to him.

Walking quickly to the armoire he grabs a pair of black pants and a maroon silk shirt and practically runs back to the bathroom to get dressed. Willows giggles at his retreat trails behind him as he shuts the door solidly behind him. Wonderful, he thinks, just wonderful.

With his back to Willow, Angel dresses quickly and mentally prepares himself to speak to her. Not even a deep breath is helping. Angel feels he owes her so much for changing her life, taking her choice of death from her. He simply cannot bring himself to speak to her. What would he say? An apology would be trite and practically meaningless. What’s done is done. Another breath and he thinks that, for now, they will take one day at a time - one thing at a time. Steeling himself, he turns around and notices she’s twirling a loose thread in her fingers absently.

“Willow,” Angel begins, clearing his throat, “I, uh, I thought maybe today you could meet everyone.” She looks up at him with wide eyes and he adds hastily, “That is, if you feel up to it.”

This will be a test for the both of them. One, to see how she will react. Two, to see how they would react. And three, to see how he would react. 

“Um, I guess I could say ‘Hi’.” Willow says, looking down to the thread around her finger. “But I’m kind of hungry now,” she barely whispers. Thankfully Angel’s hearing catches even the faintest sound, and he understands her clearly. A part of her knows she would not have been able to repeat that.

“Of course,” he says, turning to the refrigerator in his little apartment. He gathers the mugs while the blood heats in the microwave. Placing one warm mug opposite him on the table, he watches Willow as she climbs off the bed and walks in a near trance towards the red liquid that would forever sustain her.

Angel notices off handedly that this vampire Willow is a much tamer version than the one he had had the … pleasure … of meeting her Sophomore year in high school. Nothing, however, will let him forget she nearly lost her tight control with the couple last night. That is not something he can allow today with his friends. Sipping quietly, he watches every move she makes, memorizing the way her hair falls to frame her face.

He watches her start and stop, attempting to put some thought into words. Finally she looks up at him quickly, but cannot seem to look him in the eye, and says, “Angel, I – I want to apologize … for this morning. I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I moved you to the bed and took off your clothes to make you more comfortable. I felt bad enough seeing you sitting in that chair like that. I … I didn’t mean to …,” she trails off, clearly unable to finish.

’It’s okay,” Angel says, doing a lot of not-looking-directly-at-her himself. “I wondered how I got into”bed.” He clears his throat as the sensations wash through his body remembering the feel of her against him. “Thank you for the thought. Now, are you still hungry?”

It is imperative to make sure she is full enough that her hunger will not get the better of her. It just so happens that it is a good distraction from their current conversation. He smiles knowingly as she looks disgustedly at her mug. It is pigs blood, and he of all vampires knows that it falls very short of the real thing. Thankfully, she has not taken a human vein, so she is unable to compare between the two and thus be less likely to go for a human if she is full. Well, t’at’s what Angel thinks, and the logic seems sound to him. He also realizes he will have to feed her regularly from his own vein for quite a while as well.

“Come here, Willow,” Angel says. He knows Sire’s blood will quench any newborn’s thirst a hundred times better than pig’s blood. 

Tentatively, Willow gets up and walks over to him. She’s tense as Angel pulls her into his lap and tilts his head back to expose his neck. “Angel?” she asks.

’It’s okay, Willow.” Gently he leads her head to his neck. The both of them are tense, wary of touching too much and not enough. Feeding another is an incredibly intimate act and Angel quickly gathers his control and shields himself in it. That does not, however, stop the small groan that escapes his lips as her tongue sneaks out and licks quickly along his jugular.

Willow’s face changes to that of her demon a moment before she strikes. They simultaneously let out moans. Her pulls are gentle, soft and sweet, only dragging more into her mouth when the flow begins to ebb. It’s instinct that causes their hips to move against each other, or so Angel tells himself.

Before anything goes too far, Angel gently pushes her away from his vein. She licks the punctures reverently before she raises her head and looks at him. Her face is back to the one he’s known all this time, a silent thank you on her features. He sees his blood on the corner of her lip, a red stain that makes her lips seem fuller and beautiful. Despite his control, Angel leans in to kiss those blood stained lips. A quick brush is all he allows himself before he pushes away.

Together they stand just inches apart. Willow's tongue deftly licks at the remaining blood on her lips and Angel cannot help but stare at the act. Once again the scent of his Childe’s desire fills the room and she takes a step towards him. Gathering his will, Angel steps back and away, moving behind the chair and putting it between them.

“Willow, no,” he says, putting a command behind the tone of his voice. She stops and visibly shakes herself as a war breaks out inside of her. Sweat trembles on her skin as she looks to him, pleading with her eyes to help. He knows she is struggling internally to obey, yet fighting with her demon who wants nothing more than to please her Sire. Silently Angel curses himself, realizing only a little too late that she knows next to nothing about vampires, only what she has observed through he and Spike and read in books. She knows how to hunt them, kill them, but nothing about the heirarchy, the social structure, and little about his actual life now.

After a few moments, Willow visibly relaxes as is no longer trying to fight his command. She takes a few calming deep breaths. “Sorry, Angel,” she says softly, still a little shaken by her inner struggle. “I ... I don't know what came over me. I just ... I don’t know.” Her eyes start to make their way to his face, but stop short and fall back to the floor in subservience, instinct kicking in.

“It’s okay,” Angel says, attempting to reassure her through his words because he still does not trust himself to touch her. He feels as lost as she looks, however. “It's ... well, it's normal for you to have that reaction to your Sire's blood. Don’t worry about it.” He attempts for a casual dismissal of the entire incident, but it is weak at best. Angel debates explaining further, but is afraid that in discussing it that it will then bring all of it back to the surface and they'd just gotten their emotions under some sort of control. “How do you feel?” he asks instead.

“Good," Willow says automatically. He holds back a smile as he sees her take a moment to actually think about it. Angel can almost see her catagorizing, taking stock, and attempting to understand it all. She looks back up at him with a quirk of her lips and says, “Better. Thank you.”

Her small smile is very welcome and for a moment he allows himself to smile back. Angel takes a small step forward, testing the air between them before he moves forward and wraps his large arms around her small frame. Surprised, it takes Willow a few seconds to relax and hug him back. But soon her small lithe arms are wrapped around his torso and her head is tucked under his chin. They both seem surprised at how much they need this contact.

After a moment, Angel pushes her away from him, holding onto her shoulders at arm’s length. “Ready to go?“

”I …,” she pauses and looks down at her clothes,’“I’m not really dressed to impress.“

“Don’t worry,” Angel says, not noticing anything wrong with her outfit. “I’m sure Cordelia will be more than happy to go shopping with you.” Seeing Willow’s wince he adds, “Or for you if you want.“

“It’s probably best if she goes for me right now.“

“Okay. I’ll send her off after your re-introductions,” Angel says, already adding in his head extra money for Cordelia herself. “I don’t think I have to say this, but no biting,” he smiles as he says it to take the sting off. “And let me tell them about your … well … condition.”

She nods, walking away from him to grab their mugs. He watches her as she walks to the sink to clean them out. To some, her changes would be barely noticeable, but he can see it – the difference in her. She’s much more graceful now. He doubts even she is aware of how graceful she is now. Quickly, Angel looks away as she finishes putting the mugs away and turns to him.

“Shall we?” she asks, smiling and holding out her hand. He isn’t sure if it is her way of trying to get over what had happened in bed and in the chair, or if she feels the need to touch him and the smile is to hide that need – either way he takes her small hand in his large one and nods.

Together they head down to the lobby where they see Cordelia behind the desk with her obligatory magazine open in front of her. Off to the side they see Wesley in his office, looking at a tome of some sort. Business as usual. Cordelia, of course, notices them first.

"Angel, it's about time you came down...Oh, Willow! Hi! When did you get here?" Cordelia asks, coming around the desk to meet them.

"Hey Cordelia," Willow says. She gives her a tentative wave and smiles.

"So, Angel. Is she why you came banging on my door so early this morning?" Cordy asks. He knew it would be a trying day, but nothing can truly prepare someone for the likes of Cordelia.

"No, there was another reason. Well, actually, kind of." Angel runs a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable and trying to remember why it was he brought Willow down here. Surely this could have waited another day … or more.

Just then, Wesley walks out of his office and stops mid-stride when he sees Willow. "Ah, Willow, what a pleasant surprise," he says. 

"Hello Wesley. Nice to see you again."

An awkward silence filled the air around them, making it heavy. Angel hears footsteps outside just moments before Gunn swings the door wide and stops at the landing. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he says looking at Willow. 

Knowing that not making the proper introductions would only make things worse, Angel motions to Gunn. “Willow, this is Charles Gunn.” 

Angel holds his breath as the human comes bouncing down the stairs and sticks his hand out to her. They shake and … nothing happens. It seems so far that no one has noticed Willow’s altered state. This has yet to prove good or bad.

“Hey there Red, nice to see another pretty face in here,” Gunn says smoothly.

Unable to help herself, Willow lets out a giggle that seemingly bursts from her mouth. Quickly her hands come up to cover her mouth, through which she says, “Sorry. It’s just … Red is a nickname a friend of mine back in Sunnydale uses for me.”

The world has not come crashing down around his ears and Angel releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Perhaps she is young enough to pass for human for a while. At least until he is able to come to terms with her altered state himself and his part in it. He selfishly wishes that he will never have to tell them, never reveal his moment of weakness for a girl whom he’d come to care for deeply, for whom he owed more than his life but also the lives of most surrounding him now, Cordelia and Wesley.

“Say, did I miss something?” Lorne asks, walking towards the group, a great big smile on his face and a lift in his step. He catches Angel off guard, being too absorbed in his own thoughts to hear the green demon approach.

“Uh,” Willow says, her eyes bulging, her mouth hanging open as Lorne comes to stand with them“

“Well hello there, Sugar,” Lorne says, holding out his hand. Willow shakes it almost mechanically. “Aren’t you just a sweet little thing! Love the hair, doll.” His overtly green hand snakes out and grabs a lock and Willow instantly jumps back. Willow spent too many years on a Hellmouth to allow random demons, no matter how … fancy they dress, to touch her.

“Willow, this is Lorne,” Angel says, “He is an Anagogic demon. He reads people’s auras and futures when they sing.” He is careful to point this out in case Willow is one who hums or sings absently while doing things. If anyone were to catch on to her new condition, it would be Lorne.

“Didn’t mean to make you jump, Sweetcake. Where are you from?” Lorne asks a still bewildered Willow.

“Oh, um I’m from Sunnydale“”

“Right, Annel’s old stomping grounds. ’It’s not often Sweet Cheeks over here gets such lovely company. Especially not of the vampiric persuasion,” Lorne says smiling broadly, momentarily oblivious to the bomb he just dropped.

The entire lobby falls into silence. Lorne looks around at everyone. Everyone looks around to Willow.

“Uh, surprise!” Willow says.


End file.
